Ink and paper
by malintzin
Summary: Sometimes, written words are the only way out.


So here's a new post s3 fic. Since the "letters chapter" in The healing process, I've been wanting to explore the genre more thouroughly. So here's my attempt at epistolary genre. Hope you'll like it!

As usual, a big thanks to MrsTater and her wonderful support...

_Downton, October 28th, 1921_

As a young girl, I never kept a journal,

I claimed loud and clear that such a habit as a form of weakness – wasn't Edith so fond of her own, well-kept and well-hidden journal? That was the time when I simply could not lower myself to enjoy something my sister did. That was the time when I would have never dared to confide in anyone or even anything. Instead, I nursed my fears and frustrations and joys like as many treasures that were only _mine_. I knew who I was and what I wanted, and that was enough.

Yet, so many years later, here I am, not really knowing what to do with the first page of the stern black notebook I purchased on a whim the week before while accompanying Granny to Ripon. Actually, I quite don't know what to do and what to write, still I already filled half a page of this nonsense.

Was it what Edith sought with her own diary, a form of escapism, a moment when you let your hand and your mind wander aimlessly? Writing for writing, and not just a written confidence – that could be read by anyone – to an inanimate object, like I used to think in the past?

Or, more probably, was it a way to get rid of that awful, ever-present knot in the stomach and that permanent constricting of the throat when crying for weeks, hiding yourself behind a wall of outward silence or screaming in your pillow at night did not manage to do the trick? Did Edith resume her diary after the Titanic, after her failed wedding, after Sybil's death?

What is even the point of beginning to keep one when you are almost thirty?

Will writing in this notebook keep me warm at night? Will words hold me; love me in the bed I have only shared for eighteen months with my husband? Will it give me back my dear companion, the only one I could be myself with?

All of this seems so futile, so ridiculous even. Yet, I keep on writing, in spite of the all too familiar quivering of my lips and burning feeling in my eyes, as if my life depended on it. Outside, I can hear Georgie's imperious cries. He's hungry, surely, and he's letting the whole house know it. In a few seconds, I'll be able to hear the nanny's hushed footsteps to the nursery. Being part of the aristocracy when you are a widow with an infant is a blessing. If you want it, you are never left alone facing the child you are afraid to love blindly.

You cannot fail if there is a nanny seeing that your child is well-fed and well-watched after.

"You'll be a wonderful mother."

That was a presumptuous declaration.

I may have been a mother with _him_ by my side.

Without _him_, I'm not whole. How could I raise a child without feeling whole? How cruel and unjust would that be? I love my son with all my heart, but I'm terrified.

_Of making a wrong choice._

What if I choose a doctor because of his pedigree instead of his capacity? Dr. Clarkson won't be there forever.

What if I choose the wrong school, force Georgie to follow the wrong career?

What if I can't express my love and my son ends up resenting me for that?

Nanny Jenkins, in spite of her awful Welsh accent, does such a better work than I would.

If I ever want to be the mother my husband was so sure I would be, I need to get myself together, and I don't even know where to begin. Maybe this ridiculous notebook will help. I hope it will, because everything I have tried for the last two months failed dramatically, everything I have been told since Georgie's birth did not even reach me.

I feel so abandoned without _him_.

* * *

_Downton, October 30th, 1921_

Re-reading the ridiculous amount of self-pity I vomited on the page two nights before. Am I really becoming this woman who feels sorry for herself, who lets herself drown in her sorrows?

The simple fact that I am wondering about this is a form of answer in itself and it's frightening.

This notebook was a bad idea – as if it helped Edith to be a stronger woman anyway. Tomorrow, I'll take Georgie to visit his grandmother.

Tomorrow, I'll walk with her to the _grave_.

Tomorrow, I'll be myself once again. I have to.

I'm never down for long.

And two months of self-pity are more than enough.

* * *

_Downton, November 5th, 1921_

In the nursery, Georgie has been crying for the last two hours, keeping everyone awake. Nanny Jenkins says it's probably gas that disturbs him, that we must be patient, that it happens all the time…

Barely a reassurance… The poor woman still doesn't totally understand that Georgie isn't any baby boy. He's the heir to the title, the only one left… His grandfather is entitled to be worried.

He's all I have left from my husband.

He's all I have left from happier days…

An hour ago, I went to the nursery, thinking I could bring myself to _do_ something. But, as soon as I stepped into the room, the sound of his cries gripped my heart so much I could barely breathe.

All seemed so natural when the nurse gave me my baby to hold for the first time. Gestures I didn't know seconds before came to me instinctively. With wonder, I discovered then I knew how to hold him, to cradle his head with caution, to caress his wrinkled face.

Two months later, I could barely control his shaky small arms, and the way I held him only seemed to aggravate him further.

Under Nanny Jenkins' disapproving stare, I fled back to this damn notebook and the protection of my room – my old room to which I have retreated since I came back from the village hospital.

An old Turkish ghost is much less frightening than one's husband's.

That much I'm reminded unmercifully each day that passes, when I step into the room we used to share to retrieve a forgotten book or a piece of jewelry I want to give to my mother, when I hear Papa talking about the management of the estate with Tom, when I try to visit _his _grave…

I tried, God knows I tried the day I went to visit Isobel.

But I couldn't do it.

I almost did, but I couldn't walk beyond the church.

I'm pathetic.

Pa-the-tic

Just good enough to confide to a mere notebook.

Actually, it's almost fortunate that Edith's decision to go after her editor provoked Papa's wrath. At least she won't be there to witness how low I've fallen down.

How pathetic now is the eldest Crawley daughter, who once had everything that a woman could dream of.

A fairytale wedding, with the villagers cheering as my carriage paraded to the church.

A son and heir.

A husband, who repeated again and again and again how much he loved me.

Perfection.

I want my life back.

Downton, November 9th, 1921

The heavy clouds and the rain of the last few days have been replaced by a bright autumn sun, and Tom decided it was a great day to take Sybie and Georgie for a little walk in the park.

As usual, his tone left no place for refusal or even negotiation.

Who could think this is the same man who used to drive me around whenever I ordered it?

His short-lived marriage to Sybil changed him considerably. If the sadness is still here – and will always be – he looks more assured of his place in the world, and at Downton. Actually, for the last two months, he's been the one who held the house together, discussing management for hours with Papa, assuring Mama of his support _until things get better_, helping me as I stumble through my grief.

If there is anybody who can understand my pain, it is Tom. He knows it all too well, and witnessing it so soon after Sybil passed away must be torture.

A lesser man would have taken Sybie and walked the hell out of Downton, away from the spiral of grief.

But not Tom Branson.

Now, the man each of us insulted at one time or another is bearing a weight that is not his to bear, defending an heirloom that is not his to defend, carrying his new responsibilities as a surrogate son and main administrator without showing any hesitation.

A lesser man would rub the situation to our faces again and again, and he would be right to do so.

But not Tom Branson.

_Sybil would have decided we needed to go back to Yorkshire in a heartbeat, so here I am…_

A sad but sweet smile formed on his lips as he explained modestly his constant support for the last months earlier this afternoon.

Another, more subtle, way of telling it was what Sybil would have wanted…

We didn't talk much after that, and resumed our walk, both of us pushing our infants' prams. For a moment, I almost felt at peace. The warm sun didn't unnerve me, for once. Georgie's satisfied expression as he slept in the pram, his little fists clenched on each side of his head, filled me with confidence. This was the moment when I decided I needed to fix those instants on paper as well if I wanted to go through this.

Some days are worth living.

* * *

_Downton, November 10th, 1921_

Insomnia, once again.

The kind of insomnia which keeps you awake, staring blankly at the darkness, counting the hours as they go by with excruciating slowness.

A well known companion I almost managed to forget during the eighteenth months of our marriage. Even at the time of our worst arguments about Swire's money, _his _mere warm presence was enough to chase the uninvited thoughts and obsessions away.

Now, I'm back to square one.

Years of hope and dread, months of bliss served for nothing and I'm still the same girl who contemplates the darkness in the middle of the night and lets her ghosts and fears engulf her.

The day before filled me with so much hope, though! A simple stroll in the park, a gentle conversation with my brother-in-law, my brother-in-arms, my fellow widowed young parent helped me so much more than the endless hours of useless chatting with the family's "widowed authorities".

"_You have no choice but surpass this great test God sent your way," _Isobel says, her voice unbearably sweet, her eyes full of the kind of confidence given by a deep-rooted faith.

"_You are the heir's mother, you must watch out for his legacy," _Granny repeats, her words sharp as usual, but her gaze full of unspoken sadness.

"_You have every right to be angry, but anger won't change anything, in the end. You need to look forward, not backward," _Aunt Rosamund advises, always the practical woman. Is it how she managed to fool everyone after her husband's death?

Tom doesn't give any advice, ever. On the contrary, he's the only one _listening_. And, at the moment, it's what helps me most, during the day.

But at night, there's nobody to protect me from the ghosts.

_What if?_

For as long as I remember, it's the thought who always kept me awake at night?

What if I had told the truth about the doll with the blue dress?

What if I had accepted Edith's apologies about my favourite teddy-bear?

What if I had been born a boy?

What if inheritance laws weren't so idiotic?

What if I decided not to marry Patrick after all?

What if I had called for help and thrown Pamuk out?

What if I had answered favourably to the first proposal when it was time? Richard's proposal?

What if I delayed and delayed and delayed the wedding enough? Would _he_ come back to his senses in the end?

What if William had not enlisted?

What if I accepted Richard's repeated invitations to London and Scotland?

What if _he_ had simply phoned home instead of taking his damn car?

For years, _what ifs_ have danced in my head, scattered little monsters who taunted me again and again, gaining new comrades with each passing year, with each crossroads life offered to me, with each decision I instantly regretted. I could spend hours agonizing over the past, fretting about the future.

With _him_ by my side, I thought I was freed from for good.

Now, my old companions are back, livelier than ever. If I have no shelter left, maybe writing through the insomnia will help me to tame them.

Maybe.

I wish I could have a good night's sleep.

I wish I could stop thinking about the _curse_.

Can't go there, yet.

* * *

_Downton, November 11th, 1921_

More insomnia.

As I feared, the little monsters are hard to get rid of. Will this always be the case each time I'll celebrate the anniversary of a crucial moment of _our _story?

Christmastime, the wedding, the first proposal, _his _injury, Georgie's birth... Will each of these days be a day of sheer torture? Will any event in the calendar that I associate loosely with these moments reawaken the pain?

This morning, the whole family, including me, went to the village to celebrate the third anniversary of the armistice. Solemnly, Papa revealed the simple monument at the entrance of the church cemetery, a monument on which were engraved the names of the young men from the village who had given their lives for King and Country. It was a sad, poignant moment Papa was born for. He knew how to find the right words, the right expression to give form to our shared pain, to the very existence of the Downton community. In front of the commemorative monument, we weren't an aristocratic family and their people, but a wounded, solidary community.

Papa may have been a poor administrator, but he's a good Earl. Nobody can deny that.

Strangely enough, the proximity of _his _grave didn't cause any panic, as I feared before we left for the village. For once, it isn't the imaginary sound of a car crash or my gnawing doubts about my abilities as a mother that keeps me awake this night.

A simple name engraved on the monument is.

Daisy's unreadable expression is.

An old man's tears are.

_Private William Mason_.

Because, if I'm totally honest, without him, I wouldn't have had any reason to hesitate and marry Richard. Without William, the hope of a perfect future would have vanished for good. Without our footman's sacrifice, there wouldn't have been heir to the title left.

Was it the same line of questioning that had propelled _him _to flee from the commemoration last year? Did _he_ think about William at all?

Because, if there was a sacrifice that had beneficiated us, it was William's.

Because, for all the emphatic declarations of guilt and honour, Lavinia only died of the flu. William, on the other hand... Always the paternalist Earl, Papa asked his heir, his surrogate son to keep an eye on our footman, on the boy who had grown up serving us. It is what we do, what we have done for centuries... People serve us, but we protect our people.

On that fateful day, the one who served and protected was the same young man. Would another soldier have sacrificed himself in the same fashion? Did he act this way because he respected his Captain as an officer or as the heir to the title, like he had been taught to since his childhood?

Did we owe our happiness to the sacrifice of a man who deeply respected an order of the world my husband despise so much?

The simple hypothesis of a positive answer is disturbing to a point I can't begin to describe, even in this notebook.

Never in our worst arguments Richard hurt me as much as _he _did when _he_ talked about the curse for the first time, again just before our marriage.

_We are cursed you and I._

_Don't you see?_

_We can never be happy._

Long ago, the night of the first proposal, Matthew had reminded me that each insult I had ever proffered still rang fresh in his memory. The same I could have said about this affirmation at Lavinia's grave. With three sentences, Matthew had destroyed any hope I had of my dreamed future with him.

Richard was there, I vaguely remember walking back to the house with him.

Maybe Matthew was right.

He was right.

We were only happy for eighteen months, then when we thought we could not get happier, when we felt fulfilled and began to think we were the only artisans of our happiness, we received our punishment.

Not for Lavinia's death.

For William's.

Matthew was right and wrong at the same time. Or maybe did he never voice it, choosing to focus on Lavinia instead?

A young man's sacrifice for only eighteen months of bliss is too high a price.

What if I had married Richard instead?


End file.
